


Sillage

by lacemonster



Series: Lacemonster's Gifts [17]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Blood, Breeding, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Dubious Consent, F/M, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Moral Ambiguity, Moral Dilemmas, Pregnancy Kink, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-21 18:47:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30026238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacemonster/pseuds/lacemonster
Summary: After ordering the death of her son, Talia escapes with Leviathan. Determined to bring her to justice, Bruce tracks her down in her headquarters. As they fight, they both are forced to confront their past and determine where they went wrong.Takes place near the ending of Batman Inc., with some canon divergence.
Relationships: Talia al Ghul/Bruce Wayne
Series: Lacemonster's Gifts [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1181402
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19





	Sillage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wodkapudding](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wodkapudding/gifts).



> This story takes place near the end of Batman Inc., after Talia has ordered Damian's death. However, instead of Talia being killed by Kate Kane, she escapes before she ever fights Bruce. This story imagines if Talia and Bruce had crossed paths somewhere private instead.
> 
> This story doesn't excuse Talia's actions, but it does paint her in a sympathetic light, so if you're someone who hates Talia, do not read. I don't feel like dealing with comments condemning Talia anyways, so I'll probably just ignore and delete any comments that didn't heed my warning.
> 
> I tried to tag for any possible trigger warnings. But just in general, if you're not ready for messy relationship problems and porn, you might be better off avoiding this fic.
> 
> A special thank you to wodkapudding for this request and for being so unbelievably generous and patient as it took me months to get this story out. More thanks for giving me permission to post this story on AO3.

She was in his bedroom. Bruce knew it was her by the scent of her perfume. He hadn’t smelled her in months, not since he had returned to Gotham. He never even thought he would be in the same room with her again. But nothing could make him forget that floral, faintly sweet scent. The night breeze carried her perfume from the window to his bed, gracing his pillow and bringing back memories.

When he realized who she was, that she had come all this way to see him, his heart started to beat faster. He didn’t know if she was there against her father’s wishes—or if she was only there because he had ordered it. Perhaps he should have attacked first and asked questions later. Perhaps that would have been wiser. But he found himself in his bed, pretending to be asleep. Waiting for the answer.

Her steps were light and silent. His eyelids were just barely parted, watching as her shadow crossed the moonlit walls of his room. The silhouette of her hand raised. Approaching him. His heart beat faster.

When she grabbed his shoulder, his training kicked in. He quickly grabbed her by the wrist, stilling her.

She didn’t react, which gave him pause. She watched him closely, with feline-like eyes, the greens glowing against the moonlight. He didn’t breathe, watching her every move, as her hand reached to pull back her hood, then her mask.

Talia. He hadn’t seen her in months and the cautious, apprehensive way that she looked at him made him feel like he hadn’t seen her longer still. She didn’t remind him of the woman he had left behind just months ago. She reminded him of the woman he had first met—The Demon’s Daughter, who was wary and even spiteful of her father’s new apprentice. 

At any moment, he expected the hand that he was holding would fold and embrace into his. But it did not. She pulled away from him.

“What are you doing here?” he asked her.

She didn’t answer him. She looked at him for a moment, then rose. His head followed her as she moved back toward the window she had entered to get into his bedroom. After a moment, he got up, joining her.

“The Demon’s Head does not know I’m here,” she said. She wouldn’t look at him again, her eyes fixed toward the distance. Bruce followed her gaze. Beyond the private property of Wayne Estates, past the iron gate and black road and the line of trees, was the distant blinking lights of Gotham City.

“Why are you here?”

He heard her sigh, the sound so soft.

“To warn you. He plans to attack the city.”

At that, Bruce turned her. Still, she would not look at him, her gaze downcast.

“How? When?”

“Tomorrow. Midnight. Wayne Tower.”

“We can still stop him.”

“ _You_ will stop him,” she said at once, raising her head. “If he even hears a whisper that I was here, he will kill me. And if I’m lucky, he’ll only kill me once.”

She pulled away from him, crossing her arms. She seemed cold, distant. Neither of them were good with words. Him especially. As he struggled to find the right thing to say, she suddenly spoke.

“So this is your city,” she said, quiet. He watched her closely, noticing the way she shook her head to herself. “When I first got off the plane, I could hardly breathe. The smog was so thick. I’m not used to cities. But I suppose I should have expected as much—we are so far away from Nanda Parbat, after all.”

“Yes,” he said, after a moment. There was a sinking, twisting feeling inside of his chest. He suspected that Talia felt it too, in the way her eyes shone. “Yes, I suppose we are.”

She clenched her jaw in response. He didn’t have the words in his head. So he spoke the simplest words that he could muster.

“You can stay, Talia.”

“No,” she said. Her voice was a touch quieter. Her arms were still tightly crossed around her, but she shifted her weight to her other leg, leaning ever so slightly closer to him. “He’d kill me. Your city. Everything you hold dear. Then he’d kill you. And I can’t let that happen.” She swallowed. “It's better for us to be apart. I can protect you that way, at least.”

Something stirred inside of him at those words. It was then, more than ever, that he realized the truth. She loved him. It had been so long since he had been loved. And he knew that it had been so long since she had loved, out of fear of having her affections and trusts misplaced, as it had been so many times, twisted and crushed in the hands of her father. They were scared people, but they were willing people—and because of that, it only made the injustice of their situation all the much harder to stomach.

“There is something we could do,” she said after a moment. Her voice was quiet, tentative. He listened. “We could leave. We’d have to leave everything. He wouldn’t accept it, at first. But in time—once he realizes we have no plans to stop him—he’ll let us go.”

“I can’t leave Gotham behind.”

“We can find someplace new. Someplace we can breathe.”

“I can’t do that, Talia. You know I can’t. Especially not now, not after everything I trained for.”

“I’ve heard of all the ways that the people of this city terrorize each other. There’s no saving them.”

“Because Ra’s told you they can’t be saved, he’d rather just kill them all—“

“I can’t do it anymore,” she suddenly said, the loudest she had been all night. She tore away from the window, finally taking him by the arms, looking at him. And not just looking at him, but looking into him, her eyes searching for answers. “Just tell me plainly, Beloved. I’ve struggled to find the answer every night since you left and I can’t take not knowing anymore. Will I ever be a part of your plans? Will I ever be a priority?”

He looked at her. Knowing what she wanted him to say. And thought about what she said. Him and her, in a place where they could breathe, a place with peace. A life without fighting. All they had ever known was fighting, but she was willing to step away.

But could he step away? Knowing what he was leaving behind? Had there ever been a peace that didn’t have to be fought for?

“No.”

She stared at him, unblinking. Her hold on him loosened, until it was gone. She backed away. Not looking at him.

She turned back toward the window, pulling her hood back up.

“Goodbye, Detective.”

* * *

Bruce couldn’t remember the last time they had crossed swords. He could only recall those early, early days—back when she had first shown him how to wield a blade. All those years ago, in her father’s mountains, when Bruce seemed more like a boy than a man.

She was testing him as much as she had tested him back then. When he snuck past her security and invaded her headquarters, only to find a sword neatly shelved on the doors to her chambers, he knew that she had been waiting for him. He also knew that by taking that sword and entering those doors, he was entering her playing field.

Trap or not, he went to confront her. Attack first, ask questions later. She had already been standing in the room, waiting, her sword drawn at her side. He looked into those green eyes, not knowing if she was satisfied that he had played into her hands, or satisfied to have a good, clean fight at last.

He didn’t know how long it had been since he had drawn his sword. He had lost track of time. All he knew was the sweat that clung to his skin and the air that was desperate to reach his lungs. Had they ever fought this long in the past? In those early days, after every mission and test that Ra’s put him through, he always came out thinking, _Now, I can take on anything._

But the stakes had always risen. Over the years, his body had been broken again and again. Every night was a new challenge, a new mission, a new tragedy.

A new test to determine if he was still strong enough to keep doing this. To keep being Batman. 

And the tests just kept getting crueler.

After a flurry of his sword strikes, each of which she had expertly parried, she moved across the room. Bruce judged the new distance between them, finally taking a moment to breathe and take in their surroundings. What had once been the meeting chamber of her Leviathan headquarters was now a ruined battlefield filled with upturned furniture, torn curtains, and scattered papers. Her once refined and regal appearance was now whittled down to disheveled hair and clothes torn with shallow cuts.

He didn’t know how long it had been since he had drawn his sword, but he did know that they couldn’t keep going like this. 

They couldn’t.

They both stood there, eyeing their own work, trying to catch their breaths. Finally, she sniffed and spoke.

“I’m surprised you chose to entertain me, Detective. I thought for certain you would turn tail the moment you realized your skulking had failed.”

“I’m sure you would have liked me to leave, Talia. It would have given you more time to prepare your next scheme. I’m not letting you escape again.”

He sprinted forward. Their swords clashed, the impact reverberating through his arm. His sheer strength nearly toppled her, but she was fast and enduring. She pivoted and struck again, which he just barely blocked. He gritted his teeth as the blades slid against each other. He was stuck in his own words, the reminder of his failure. _I’m not letting you escape again._

They couldn’t keep going like this.

“If there’s any good left inside of you, Talia, then turn yourself in. Before more people get hurt.”

“The words of a coward who knows he’s lost,” Talia said, voice strained as she tried to turn their blades. She puffed out a breath and groaned, “Why don’t _you_ give in? You’re the one I want, after all.”

He let in to his anger. He pulled back the sword and swung. This time, she wasn’t quick enough to block his attack. She spun out of his way, but not fast enough to avoid the blade that bit through her sleeve, cutting her arm. She stumbled and clenched her jaw, but voiced no protest, even as the blood began to seep down her arm.

It took his self-control to not swing again, but he couldn’t hold back his words.

“What’s it going to take, Talia? How many more lives are you willing to destroy for your power trip? Wasn’t trading your son enough?” he barked at her.

She did not shy away from his voice. Her chin lifted in his direction, her eyes darkening. She suddenly propelled forward, striking, and he nearly didn’t raise his sword in time to meet hers. The sound of their swords striking rung through the air.

“Don’t talk to me about trades,” she hissed, suddenly pushing back with a force of strength. It was enough force to turn his blade, the two swords scraping with a ringing hiss. Bruce backed off in time to deflect her next swing. “Again and again, I was ready to lay down everything for you. My ambitions, my family—“

She swung again and again, in a series of merciless strikes. He kept deflecting, moving further and further backwards, knowing damn well she was going to corner him but having no choice but to keep up with her cobra-like strikes. She kept talking, every biting word punctuated by the trill cries of their crossing swords.

“Don’t talk to me about trades when we could have had the world—and you gave me up for a _city_!”

He was out of space, his heel hitting up against the wall. She didn’t swing. Instead, she thrusted her wielding arm forward, going for the kill. Or it would have, if it hadn’t been for the suit. The sword just barely pierced through the weave of armor. He gritted and grunted through his teeth as the sharp blade sunk an inch into his side, his own sword dropping from his hand.

But he didn’t go down. As soon as her arm pushed forward, he took advantage of his longer reach, just barely managing to catch hold of her wrist. He pulled. The sword twisted from her hand, landing on top of its mate on the floor. They wrestled but in seconds, they had switched places. He shoved her up against the wall, the impact reverberating through the surface. 

She did no more than grunt at the pain. Still in the fight, she tried to push forward—but then Bruce shoved her back into the wall, holding her there, even as she tried to kick her way out. She still wasn’t holding back, but Bruce endured, even as the cut in his side stung and bled.

He could hear her tiring out. He felt it too. The sweat hot and thick on his skin from their fight. But more than that, there was an anguished, desperate tinge to her panting breaths. She didn’t want to lose. She cursed him with each shortened exhale.

“Don’t talk to me about trades,” she huffed, the loose strands of her hair blowing past her lips. She groaned as she bucked against him, but he was steadfast. “You traded him as well as I did—“

Underneath all of the exhaustion, an anger still burned inside of him.

“I didn’t do this, Talia. You did,” he hissed back. “ _You_ did this.”

She cried out, using her leg as leverage to push herself off the wall. He nearly stumbled at her surge of strength, his boot catching the grit of the concrete floor—but he pushed back, pressing his full body weight into her. This time, when she hit the wall, she stayed there for a moment—her hands still locked around his arms in a hold, but too tired and exhausted to throw him off. 

He was stunned to realize that he wanted her to keep fighting. If only so he could fight back. If only so he had a reason to hurt and punish her for everything she had done.

What she had done…

Her head lolled against the wall, turning up at him. They were so close that all Bruce could see was her face. She stared back at him through narrowed green eyes, her hair plastered to the sheen of sweat on her forehead. The anger was deep inside of him, burning the inside of his chest into a hollow space. He wanted to fight her. He wanted to hurt her. He wanted to hate her. He damn near wanted to kill her. The same way she had killed Damian. His boy. Their son.

He gritted his teeth, the hands pinning her beginning to shake. 

He was angry. 

Angry that he couldn’t stop her.

But also angry that he couldn’t stop himself. 

Angry that he couldn’t stop being angry. Angry that his boy was taken from him, and all his death meant was another reason to cry out against the injustices of the world. That even if he dared to kill her, all it would mean would be another casualty in his endless crusade. That he would sleep through the day and wake into the night and put on the uniform yet again and again and again until his body broke down or his heart gave out. Because he didn’t know how to be anything else but what he was—angry.

Angry that she was right.

He could have had the world. 

But he traded them both instead.

“You did this,” he insisted anyways, shaking her. She grimaced at his grip, but didn’t so much as blink, staring him dead in the eye.

And even though there was so much rage in her gaze, even though she still held up her head to him—he could see that anger begin to simmer alongside the evening of her breaths, in the way her skin began to cool. He could feel it in the way his own heartbeat began to slow. The way it twisted inside of his chest instead. The grief and the shame beginning to override the anger.

“Why?” he asked her. She looked at him, eyes now wide. “Why did you do it?”

At that, a flicker. 

The slightest hint of shine to her eyes. The slightest tremor in her lips. And in that brief flicker, he almost saw the girl again. The girl who excelled at everything she did, but kept her head low in her father’s presence. The girl who had seen a thousand deaths, but had that glisten in her eyes when they finally shared the stories of their mothers. The girl who had been beaten, stabbed, tortured, and shot without uttering a word, but still cried in the crook of his neck on that very first night when he took her and she took him.

But as soon as it was there, it was gone, replaced with something hard. Something that he barely recognized. A hardness that had always been there, but had that tendency to warm and soften and crumble away when she had looked at him, even in all the years where they stood on opposing sides with her father between them.

But not now. 

Possibly not ever again.

Because of what she did.

Because of what he didn’t.

But because of that flicker, he knew that she felt that loss too. He knew it even before she swallowed and spoke, “Is this all I’ll have of you? This grief that we share?” She tilted her head at him, looking deeply into his eyes, speaking almost delicately. “It was always forever for me, Beloved. Always.”

“Don’t,” Bruce said. He knew that despite all of the treachery and schemes that she was capable of, she was being truthful in those words. It was because he knew she was telling the truth that his voice was not as strong as he would have liked it. But he would not listen to her. Not now. Not ever. He could feel that anger rise up again—but the anguish of everything he had lost weighed it down. Blanketed it. He shook his head. “There were other ways, Talia. You wouldn’t leave your father. You had your chances—“

“I took every chance I could take,” Talia fought back, staring at him with a mixture of incredulity and frustration. “Years and years, I extended my hand and you wouldn’t take it. Because this—“she moved her hand, he grabbed it, but not strongly enough to stop her from grasping and shaking the ridges of the emblem on his chest”— _this_ was always more important.”

“If you wanted to change, you would have—and then maybe we—“he stopped himself. No. He wouldn’t. Not then and especially not now. Not after everything. _Damian,_ he reminded himself. Damian. Damian.

“Having your hate was the closest I ever felt to you.” Her hand on his heart tightened. “This is the closest I’ve felt to you. I didn’t want to lose him, Beloved, I didn’t. I didn’t. But I already lost him when you took him from me.” Suddenly he saw it again, that flicker. But this time it didn’t disappear. She looked at him, the greens of her eyes shining, sparkling. Imploring. Her voice squeezed as she said, “You feel it too. But it doesn’t have to be over, Beloved. We can start over again.”

Until that point, he had been leaning into her voice. It was true, this was the closest he had felt to her, even in those long nights of conversation under desert skies. Their pain, their anger, their grief—it was a burn that only they could feel, as parents. 

But then she said those words. _We can start over again._ He leaned away, just enough to get a good look at her. He saw the conviction in her. Those hopeful eyes struck him with dread. Suddenly, what little warmth he had felt for her had turned cold. Ice cold.

“No,” he told her.

But then she grabbed him, attempting to pull him in close where she had once been kicking and shoving to get him away. The more he resisted, the more she looked at him imploringly, the more desperately she clung to him.

“We can. We can start over.” He tried to look away, but she pulled his face toward her. He stared into the wide-eyed, almost crazed look in her eye, and felt his stomach twist. “Stay with me, Beloved. Like the way we used to. Back when we were young and unafraid. Give me a child and we can start over again—“

Now his disgust turned to rage. He forced her arms off of him, but she grabbed hold of him again, pulling him into her body. Her body. He felt suddenly aware of the heat radiating off of her. The faint smell of her sweat and perfume. Her perfume. It stunned him, distracted him for a second long enough for her to reach between his legs and grab him.

“What’s wrong with you?” he said through a growl, grabbing her by the wrist. Too strongly, but she didn’t care. She never cared about pain. She was raised in pain. She looked at him, unflinching, past the strands of her hair that had swept over her face.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” she said, looking deeply into his eyes. “We can do it properly this time. Give me a baby and we can be a family. A real family, at last. Don’t you want that? Wouldn’t that be nice?”

She’s grieving, he realized. This was her way of coping. But he had no patience for it. No kindness. She robbed him of that when she took Damian away.

She leaned up into his body, her mouth seeking his but only able to catch him on the jaw. Her scent was all consuming. Her lips soft, but her kiss hard. He tried to wrest away, but the memories took him back. The moments they stole between lessons and missions, those fits of young and stupid passion that Bruce had rarely felt since. Those moments that despite Talia’s beliefs, Bruce _did_ remember. Remembered so vividly that it made his chest ache over years and years of separation.

He was so caught up that he barely noticed the way that she turned his hold on her wrist, making him feel her instead, his hand pressed to her narrow waist. The glove was a barrier between his hand and silkiness of her blouse. He wanted to feel her. He didn’t want to feel her. His heart was racing, his blood heating up. But his stomach churned.

No, no. Not after everything.

His heart was twisting inside his chest. It was hard to think. He was anguished, he was angry, he was repulsed. But he wouldn’t escape her grip, wouldn’t escape the lull of her voice that egged him on.

“Be with me and you’ll see,” she whispered into the crook of his neck. Her breath fanned over his skin, making the hairs on his nape stand. She pulled his hand up to her breast. He could feel the dull thrum of her racing heart. “Just once. Like we used to, on those days where we told each other _just once_ and were inseparable. Where we lied in bed and you’d fuck me and we lied some more and you’d fuck me again. You were so unafraid then. You’ll see. Fill me up again, give me a child. You’ll see.”

His heart skipped. A deep, rich heat filled him at her words. The memories stirred something inside of him. It was easy, so easy, back then. So much time had passed, and he missed her more than he’d ever admit out loud, but it was _so_ much time.

“I can’t. Talia. Don’t do this,” he said, but he wasn’t pulling away enough. Grab her, he told himself. Grab her, turn her in, let her face justice. Grab her, forgive her, start all over again. _Wouldn’t that be nice?_

“Then kiss me. If you’re so certain. Kiss me one last—“

He did. Their kiss wasn’t so much as a joining of their lips as it was a crashing force. He seized her mouth, kissing her hard. Her soft lips, their luscious shape—he barely tasted them, barely savored them. Because he didn’t want to. He wanted her body without any of the enjoyment of lovemaking. He wanted that hollow promise of a fantasy to hold onto, something to make him forget the pain that had been carved into him. He wanted that relief without having to confront how disgusting, how fucked up it was that he was with this woman, the killer of his son—

She turned her head to deepen the kiss and he responded by pulling her in, his fingers tangling through her hair. She hummed against his lips, pressed her entire body into his. Her hands reached for his face, thumbs pressing into the edges of his cowl.

“Let me see you,” she murmured against his lips.

And he shouldn’t have complied, he shouldn’t. But he reached back, peeled back the armor, and when he met her gaze with his naked eyes, he could see the love that poured into her. 

There was that flicker again.

Or maybe he just wanted to imagine it was there.

Maybe he just wanted to pretend it was that girl he had met all those years ago, who was smart and worldly in a way he had never known, a girl who he could barely keep up. And yet at times she felt so innocent, so shy.

What happened to that girl he wanted to protect? To save from her father? When did he lose that drive? When did he leave her behind?

_Don’t do this._

She pulled him into a kiss again, her fingers raking through his hair, her long nails grazing against his scalp. She was pushed up against the wall again, trapped between the surface and his body. With every breath, he could feel her body rise and fall against him. His blood was racing now. He wasn’t thinking, just feeling. The heat of his body rising, lips thrumming as she moved her mouth against his, each sigh and gasp drilling straight into his head. He was getting hard, his growing erection throbbing.

He was getting lost in the adrenaline rushing through his veins. If he blocked out his thoughts, he could live with himself long enough to do this. If he let himself feel. If he didn’t think. _Don’t think._

He held onto that rush as if he was racing against the moment where the sinking horror would eventually settle in. He made work of her clothes. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her tight pants, pulling at them. Her eager hands joined his, pushing her pants past her hips. She took his hand, pressing it against her sex. With the leather of his glove between them, he can feel only the heat of her. He groped her, feeling between her folds, her hot body throbbing against his hand.

Her breaths grew shallow, arching into his touch, pressing her body against his thick fingers and palm. He could feel the shudder that travelled through her body.

“That’s it,” she whispered. She circled her hips, rocking against his hand.

He could still remember those early nights. The way she held in her voice, afraid to let him hear her. All he had of her was the hitches of her breath, the shuddering of her body. He had to read her. Over time, as she learned to love and trust, that had changed. There were no walls around her now. None of those fears, hesitations, dragged her down. It was like picking up where they had left off. Even after all this time. Because she was right, it was forever. In order to hate him, she had to love him first, and her hate was only as fierce as the rawness of her love for him.

Don’t think. Focus. The heat of her body. The way her sex throbbed at every touch. Rubbing her harder. Thighs clenched, squeezing, around his hand. She was already wet, her body ready to be taken, entered, fucked, filled. _Give me a baby._

“Enough,” she breathed, hands groping down his body, settling between his legs. “Fuck me already.”

He hesitated. This uniform was the only thing between them. His last defense.

At his faltering, she was silent. Then she grabbed him, trying to kiss him again. But he was floundering, floundering. _Don’t do this. Don’t do this._

Her lips moved from his unresponsive mouth, twisting up to his ear.

“What are you so afraid of?” she whispered—harshly, challengingly, between the snarl of her teeth. She was losing patience. She knew what she wanted and she would have it. No matter the cost. _But the cost—_ “No one knows your pain like I know your pain. No one knows the man you were before the mask. I know all of you, Beloved. There’s nothing to hide from me.”

“This is a mistake. Nothing good will come of this,” he said, his voice pushing back with equal strength. He turned his head but her nails dug into his cheek, pulling him to her. There was a dark glint in her eyes.

“I know you. And this is not you,” she said to him. When his expression didn’t change, her eyes seemed to only grow more furious, even as her grip began to loosen. She looked frustrated. Disappointed. Her expression darkened. “Your sidekick didn’t hesitate.”

Jason. Bruce suspected as much. But he didn’t expect the way his blood burned at her words. It wasn’t even her manipulating his own family against him, as angry as that made him. No, it wasn’t that.

“You’re still playing games,” he hissed at her, grabbing her hard. The faintest wince ran across her expression, but she didn’t cower. If anything, she invited his touch. The look on her face simmered, her eyes dilating. 

“Go on hating me, if you must. I don’t care now. Let something good come out of this.”

Her hand had already undone his belt. He felt it fall to the floor. He clenched his jaw. No, he shouldn’t do this. Her hand wrapped over the shape of him in his clothing. He exhaled ever so slightly at her touch. No, he shouldn’t. But he was already so hard. He wanted her. Maybe because he missed her, maybe because he just wanted to get back at her. He didn’t know. He didn’t.

He pulled himself out of his clothing. In seconds, her hand was wrapped around him, touching his naked flesh. Her palm was strong and calloused, but her fingers long and feminine. He watched her arm as it moved, her sleeve still bright with blood. _Don’t think. I don’t care now._ She grabbed him just right, the tight and warm squeeze of her hand making him groan against his wishes. She pumped his cock, all while kicking off her clothes the rest of the way, letting them slide down her long legs.

She was ready. He wasn’t going to hold back anymore. He grabbed at her thighs, hoisting her up against the wall. Her thighs eased apart even further, her hand aiming his cock at her entrance. Already he could feel the heat coming off of her. In his haste, the tip of his cock slid against her wet entrance. She was so wet. He moved, now starting to slide in.

She gasped as he breached her. He didn’t stop. He shoved forward, his cock sliding the rest of the way in. Easily, without any resistance, as if her body had been waiting for him. Waiting. He clenched his jaw, nearly shuddering. She gripped to every inch of him, hugging him tightly, hotly, comforting. He had missed her. He couldn’t admit it, he couldn’t, but he did.

Her limbs wrapped around him tighter for balance, spurring him on. He thrusted, her voice breaking in a way that made his whole body burn. He thrusted again. Again.

She clung to him, her nails and heels digging into him with every thrust. Her back pushing up against the wall to take more of him. More of him. Every inch of him was consumed with heat.

“Yes,” she breathed against his neck, a tinge of desperation to her voice. Her lips moving against his throat, jaw, cheek, ear. She grinded back against him, bringing him deeper into her body. Building the hot friction between their bodies.

He felt a sudden, sharp ache in his side. He groaned, gritting his teeth. The wound she had left him. That lightning strike of pain almost brought him back to reality. No, no. _Don’t think._ He lifted her up, hands digging into her strong thighs, and taking her to the nearby ledge, a counter that circled around the room. The only surface they couldn’t destroy in this place. His side was burning, aching. But he wasn’t going to stop.

She laid on the surface, her long hair splayed everywhere. He finally got a good look at her, from her hazy eyes to writhing body. He hooked his fingers into the opening of her blouse, pulling it with enough force for the fabric to snag and rip. He split the fabric just to her navel. His cock throbbed at the sight of her bra and bare stomach. Her body hadn’t changed much since he remembered it—soft, evenly-toned skin over hard muscles. Even the raised scars on her body seemed smooth.

He pulled at her bra with impatient hands. Hers joined him, freeing her breasts. Her breasts seemed to be the one feature of hers that had changed. The areolas were darker and fuller, her nipples swollen. From having his child. His head went fuzzy. 

He ducked his head down toward her chest. She twisted underneath him as his mouth went to her breast. She arched her chest forward, moaning. Fingers threading through his hair, pulling him deeper into her body. His mouth wrapped around her, tongue flicking at her nipple. Her squirming body moved against his, their hips grinding together, pushing back against his cock. 

Her breasts were so full. He could barely wrap his hand around the other one. The leather of his glove was a barrier between his hand and her soft, warm flesh. It didn’t matter. He just wanted her. Wanted her in any way he could have her. Wanted to pull and flick at her nipples. Wanted to hear and feel her sensitive body give in to the pleasure.

Her legs wrapped around his body, pulling him in deep. He groaned into her body, lips humming against the nipple he was latched to. Everything was a haze. He felt completely bound to her. Every inhale brought in the scent of her perfume and sex. Her sweat was on his tongue. He could hear nothing but her voice, moaning and breathing heavily. The sounds of her wet cunt, slick and open for him, as he drove into her again and again. The sounds of their bodies colliding in an almost frantic rhythm. 

And all the while, he felt. His heart racing incredibly fast. The heat radiating off of her body as she clung to him. The way her nails would dig into crown and neck, her heels into his lower back. And he still felt that dull, sharp, shooting pain in his side when he moved too fast—but he couldn’t slow down. He didn’t slow down. Underneath all that pain and torment was the delicious squeeze of her body, the growing friction and heat of their bodies moving in tandem. Her hips circling to meet his thrusts, urging him to move harder. Faster. That growing pleasure and arousal inside of him, shooting through him like fire and electricity.

It was enough to forget.

It was getting hard to breathe. His senses were flooded. All he could focus on was fucking her, their bodies slamming together, their bodies rocking on their makeshift bed. He lifted himself up, hands gripping her hips. In just moments, she had transformed. A new sweat had broken out across her body, glistening against her forehead and chest. Her nipples were hard and standing and wet from his affections. He watched as the muscles in her core moved as she adjusted her body, better aligning them for his thrusts.

A new spike of pleasure rushed through him. His shallow breaths now matched hers, a groan tearing through his throat as she suddenly clenched around him. It felt good. They had found their rhythm, their place. It suddenly struck him that they had made an art of this, once upon a time.

“That’s it, Beloved,” she said, voice breathy and heady. Her arm wrapped around herself, beneath her heavy breasts, lifting them up. Her other arm slipped down her body, her hand moving between her legs, rubbing at her clit. Her fingers slid between the folds of her wet and swollen pussy. He felt it again, that wave of arousal that made his cock throb inside of her. She was breathing hard, breasts rising and falling with every breath. She was getting close, building up to her climax with every plunge inside of her body, every stroke of her hand. “Come inside of me. Fill me up.”

He couldn’t.

Her body twisted underneath his. Her cunt seizing him, squeezing his cock.

“Don’t leave me,” she breathed. Rocking against his cock, hand rubbing at her pussy. Her body climbing toward its climax and holding onto him so sweetly, so warmly. “Stay inside. Come inside me.”

He wanted to. His entire body flamed at the thought. He grabbed onto her, his hands eclipsing her narrow waist and hips. He pulled her along his cock, driving into her harder. Deeper. Deeper. She cried out, the sound drilling into his brain. Hard to think. Hard to breathe. He just kept moving, kept fucking. All the while staring down at where their bodies met and collided.

The lower half of her body. Her thighs spread open for him. The rise and fall of her stomach. Without even thinking, he found his hand exploring the rip of her blouse, pushing aside the edges, opening them up to reveal more of her stomach. He knew she hadn’t carried his child for long. He knew. But he imagined if she had.

“Do it.” She pulled him out of his staring. His eyes met her. Her eyes were unreasonably warm, almost drunk. Her lips parted with every breath. She swallowed and spoke again. “Give me another baby.”

Those words had no right in affecting him. But they did. He clenched his jaw, biting back a groan. She shuddered around him, her body coiling tightly around him.

“Do it. Fill me with child.” 

Her words were rushing together. Her voice was breathier, her moans elongated. He finally broke, cursing under his breath. He drove into her with the purpose of breeding her—deep and fast. He wanted it. He couldn’t fight it anymore. He wanted it. He wanted her. He wanted the fantasy of the father and the mother and the boy. It was all he wanted. It was all he ever wanted.

Picking up the pace was all that was needed to send her over the edge. She suddenly arched off the table, head thrown back. Her voice gasped—then broke. She cried out as she came, her hand stilling as her body seized up. Seized around him. He could feel every wave of pleasure that ran through her, every pulse.

And not long after, he found himself grabbing her hard. Waves of heat rushed through his body, dipping into his groin. He finished inside of her, their voices groaning together. He felt his seed flood inside of her. Filling her up. Thick and hot. He kept moving. Riding out his orgasm, his skin prickling from the affermaths of his climax. He cock was sensitive to every pulse of her body around him. He kept ramming into her, burying his seed deep inside of her. Deeper. Deeper. Let it stay there.

He fell on top of her. Still inside of her. Just breathing.

Breathing.

Her perfume.

* * *

“Goodbye, Detective.”

She was ready to fly out that window, her foot already perched up on the sill, but he grabbed her.

“Talia, wait—“

She swung her head in his direction, the hood slipping back to her shoulders. He paused when their eyes met. Her eyes were bright. Hurt. Almost instantly, she recognized what he had seen in her. Her pain. And instantly, she looked away. But she did not flee again, letting him hang onto her arm.

He had to let her go. He knew that.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?” she said, sharply. Defensively.

“For telling me,” he said.

She didn’t say anything.

He had to let her go. But he kept thinking about what she had said. 

Him and her, in a place where they could breathe, a place with peace. 

And he wanted to think that maybe it was possible. 

One day, when her father was gone. When his city was safe. Maybe before then, when he finally tired of fighting and was ready to love her, fully and completely. He even liked to think that if not before, then maybe after. When his body couldn’t fight anymore. When he couldn’t carry himself anymore. And maybe by then it would be too late, but even then, he wanted to imagine they’d find each other, even if it meant not meeting until the very end, their bodies dissolving into the earth, side by side, as his parents had. As her parents never had. At the end of everything.

He wanted to believe that, because he was a hopeful person. A wishful thinker. He didn’t share those parts of himself, he never expressed it. But he was a hopeful person. Because if he wasn’t, then nothing would be worth it. Not fighting for justice, for safety, for peace. None of it.

Letting go of a woman who loved him, who he wanted to love in return—what would it be worth to let her go, if he didn’t hope they would one day cross paths again?

“Talia,” he said, softer now. That night, when he had first grabbed her by the wrist, he had hoped she would turn her hand and embrace his. She hadn’t. So he did instead, his hand slipping down the smooth flesh of her forearm to her wrist, her hand. The hand that taught him how to wield a sword, to hit, to climb. The hand that had touched him with a love that he hadn’t felt in so long, possibly ever.

There was this flicker in her eyes.

He wanted to say it again. _Stay here_. But he knew she couldn’t. Wouldn’t. So the best he could offer her was hope.

“Do you remember when I fought your father? In that desert? We fought with swords in the heat, until the sky turned red. You didn’t do anything to stop him. You didn’t fight him. You never raised your hand.”

Her expression fell. He could feel her hand pulling away from him as she shrunk back, but he held her tighter. He had to tell her.

“Do you remember? I was poisoned. But you had the antidote. You gave it to me when you kissed me goodbye.”

She looked at him. Wary and apprehensive. His hand around hers softened. She didn’t pull away.

“It was your kiss that saved me, Talia.”

She looked at him, wide-eyed. Afraid. She moved to pull away, but this time he yanked her in close. His thumb brushing back and forth over her hand.

“You’re a good person, Talia. Remember that for me.”

She closed her eyes for a moment. Her body swaying ever so slightly, as if deciding between the bed and the window. But finally she pulled away and he let her go. She pulled the hood back over her hair, more securely this time, and went back to climbing out the window. She took one last look over her shoulder, her hand resting on her mask.

“You might have to remember that for me, Beloved. Until we meet again.”

“Until then,” he told her.

She looked at him, the faintest hint of a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. Then she pulled her mask back on and he let her go. Leaving his room, his home.

Back into the shadows.


End file.
